Glory
by open wound
Summary: dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (how sweet and proper it is to die for one's country). —red


None of the children who march into the wilderness have names.

They have titles, sure, classifications bestowed upon them by their school, their peers, and, most importantly, by the League. Bug Catcher, Ace, School Kid - all words, identities, neat little packages that could have come from a factory. Bright, smiling faces, clutching their starters, full of optimism and warmth - _You, too, can become great like us_, proclaim the billboards, bearing the faces of the Elites grinning down upon the populace, promising triumph in battle and generous spoils. _You, too, can win in this world of first-come, first-serve. Take it all, take it all, if you can_; _test the waters, and when you are ready, take the leap._

There's nothing at the bottom.

* * *

Red learns quickly on that hope is the greatest lie that anyone can give. Hope for a better future, hope for just one more win, enough money to buy some rations and scrape by this winter, hope that the infected cut on your leg won't degenerate into full-on gangrene before you reach the next city, hope that Rocket won't already be firmly planted in the town you're staying at.

"We gave them a diversion," Lance tells them in the Hall of Fame, their heads nearly touching, the former Champion's hand painfully gripping his shoulder. "A game. A goal in a world where optimism, true optimism, is few and far between. The game is how we keep all these cities in check, and the population that lives in those cities subdued. Do you know what would happen if the game were to end?" Lance makes a sound like an explosion, miming the burst of a bomb with his hands. "Anarchy. Rocket would take over, Red. Hell, Rocket never even died."

The man grins. "See, that's a game too. We never killed them. _You _never killed them, I should be saying. A thousand bloodbaths can't stop human nature, or Giovanni Vittorio himself. That's why we've got to keep fighting. That's why the game has to continue. Those kids that go out into the world, those stupid kids, they're doing a job for us. They're not winning the war, but they're keeping it at a standstill.

"You shouldn't think too harshly of us. We aren't the only ones. Everywhere, from here to Sinnoh, to Kalos, human nature is always trying to rise up. Galactic, Magma and Aqua, Plasma, whatever name they go by, they're all monsters. It takes a special kind of soldier to fight the monsters, Red. It takes a kid, because only they believe that the monsters exist. The government? Go up to them, show them the facts," Lance waves a hand dismissively, "all you get for your troubles is a nice smile and a phony promise to take your interests into consideration. They don't want to believe in the monsters, because that would mean the collapse of their empire. All of this, this region, it's just an industry. Got to keep the cogs and gears of the machine working well, right? We make the kids fight because they're not the adults, they aren't running anything, they can afford to think backwards.

"Human nature never dies, Red. I just want you to remember that, in case you start wanting to hate us later."

Lance's breath is warm, his speaking coming faster and faster. He is blinking furiously. There is salty, searing liquid in his eyes. Tears. Lance gives a shaky laugh.

"You hate us, don't you. It's okay. I understand. But know that you're a hero for what you've done." The ex-Champion embraces Red. "You're a goddamn hero."

* * *

Red is not his true name. It is a corporate label, as much a product of the industry that made people like him, Trainers. Icons. Things to be vaunted, paragons setting bold, brilliant examples for the great sea of humanity to look up to. He feels ashamed whenever they televise his matches, and, with a tiny twist of sadistic pleasure, he thinks that this region would not aspire to be like its heroes if it knew what they were truly capable of, of all the blood spilled on their hands, the filth they swam in, to preserve a status quo of a drowning society.

_Human nature never dies, Red._

* * *

Mt. Silver does not promise a reprieve. Instead, it promises an interlude, a lull for him to catch his breath. Up at the top of the mountain, he stands on the apex of all that is and draws in air. Pikachu and the rest of his team stand by him.

Giovanni's face, full of mad and implacable fury, flashes through his mind, as cutting as a sword. He swallows. It is cold, so very cold at the top. So lonely.

His eyes drag slowly, ponderously downward, until he stares at the start of the mountain, shrouded in darkness, thin stretches of white snow boldly defying the dominant patches of shadow. Animal prints. Human prints.

The wind blows it all away, and he watches as the remnants of the boy who climbed up fade into nothing, into so much meaningless ice and frost. It feels final.

* * *

a/n: giovanni's surname is from l. lamora's /the game of champions/. summary comes from yew (trees and whatnot).

so, i know this thing has probably been done to death before, but i found it an interesting topic, so i did it. what do you think? reviews, as always, are appreciated.


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